Smol Bean: a Twenty One Pilots FlashFic
by Obsessedtwibrarian
Summary: Josh helps Tyler understand what it means to be a "Smol Bean".


**Author's Note:** It's impossible to determine the exact moment that fans started calling Tyler a "smol bean", but the consensus seems to be that it was sometime around mid 2015. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when Tyler discovered his new nickname. I feel very sure that the two of them would have talked about this privately. I thought it would be fun to imagine how that conversation might have gone…

 **Smol Bean**

We were sitting across from each other, our socked feet fighting for space on the small coffee table between us. I was trying out a new beat on my knee with a couple of pencils; Tyler was scribbling on a notepad, trying to lay down some new lyrics for a song. He didn't seem to be getting anywhere; he was zoned, staring off into space.

"You okay?"

Tyler sighed and tossed his notepad onto the sofa. "I can't concentrate on this right now."

"Why? What's up?"

"What's _up?"_ A cute little I'm-So-Confused wrinkle appeared between Tyler's eyebrows. "I'm a smol bean, _that's_ what up."

"Yeah. So?"

Tyler's mouth dropped open. "So? Josh, I'm. A. Smol. Bean," he said, slowly emphasizing each word.

I nodded. "Yeah, I know."

His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'Yeah, I know'? How long have you known?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. . . a while?"

"And you didn't tell me? You're my best friend. It's your duty to tell me I'm a frickin' smol bean!"

I grimaced. "Sorry. I thought you knew. I mean, like, everybody knows, brough. Even the pizza delivery guy knows."

"The pizza delivery guy," Tyler repeated slowly, the wrinkle in his brow getting deeper.

I grinned. "Yeah. He said it was cute."

Tyler stared me down, his face completely expressionless. After a few moments of silence, it became obvious Tyler was done talking; I returned to my pencil-drumming. Tyler grabbed his notepad again and started scribbling, but his enthusiasm fizzled out after a few minutes. He sighed, tossed the pen and pad aside, crossed his arms over his chest and studied me. I felt like a bug under a microscope.

"Are _you_ a smol bean, too?" he asked, finally breaking the silence.

"No, I'm definitely _not_ a bean."

His frown was back. "How do you know you're not a bean?"

"Because I'm not. I'm a Jishwa. That's totally different from a bean."

Tyler narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "That makes no sense."

I shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry. I don't make the bean rules. The fans are in charge of that."

"There's bean rules?"

I chuckled. "Apparently."

Tyler mumbled something under his breath that I couldn't quite make out. "What did you say?"

"Never mind." He scratched the stubble on his jaw. "Okay, I get the 'smol' part. That means small, right? I'm kind of short, so I get that. But the bean part…" His cute little wrinkle deepened. "I don't get that."

"Don't overthink it," I said, shrugging yet again. "You're just a bean—a _smol_ bean."

Tyler's frown turned into tiny glare. "Your membership in this fabulously talented two-man schizophrenic pop ensemble is on shaky ground right now. You know that, right?"

I snickered.

"Back to the bean part. What kind of bean? Am I a kidney bean, a pinto bean, a navy bean, or a. . .?" He hesitated, obviously overwhelmed by the sheer number of bean possibilities.

"Maybe a lima bean," I suggested.

"Eww. I hate those things."

I visibly cringed. "Me, too. What about a Great Northern?"

Tyler snapped his fingers, suddenly excited. "Yes! I'm from Ohio. Ohio is in the North and the North is great! I'm a Great Northern bean!"

I grimaced. "I'm not feelin' it. Great Northerns are kind of bland and you're the farthest thing from bland there is. Nope, you're not a Great Northern. I shouldn't have even suggested that one. But, you _could_ be a black-eyed pea or a chickpea."

"I'm a bean, not a pea," he said, sounding a teeny bit offended.

It made me happy to hear him already defending his newfound bean-ness, since I agreed with our fans: it was the perfect nickname for my best friend. He needed to embrace it and move on.

"Black-eyed peas and chickpeas _are_ beans," I said, trying not to sound _too_ smug at my obviously superior bean knowledge.

"How do you know this stuff?" he asked in awed astonishment.

"I worked at a grocery store, remember?"

We both laughed, remembering one of our interviews and the ridiculous story we'd made up about how we'd met. In real life, the only grocery aisle I was on a first name basis with was the one with junk food in it.

"But seriously, how did you know those were beans and not peas?" Tyler asked. " _I_ didn't know that and _I'm_ the lead singer."

"I grew up eating those things," I admitted.

"Oh," he said. "Makes sense."

We ran out of things to say. Tyler looked over at his pen and pad lying on the sofa, probably considering whether he should give his writing another go. I pecked out a few rhythms on my knee, adding some beat-box sound affects for the cymbals. Suddenly, Tyler shifted his gaze in my direction and grinned.

"I got it," he said, sounding pleased with himself. "I figured it out. I'm skinny and kind of shapeless, like a stick, so I'm going with a green bean." He nodded confidently. "I'm a smol _green_ bean."

I smiled. "I like it."

He nodded. "Me, too. Although, green beans are pretty useless, nutrition-wise."

I disagreed. " _No_ bean is useless, including, and most _especially_ , smol green beans. Those are pretty frickin' awesome."

Tyler snickered. "Are we gay?"

I paused to consider it. "I don't think so, but then I'm not one to shut a door in the face of possibilities."

Tyler laughed and threw his pen at me. I threw it back; it bounced off his nose.

"So, you're good with being a bean, now?" I asked, after we'd spent a few minutes dive-bombing each other with his pen.

His smile faded; he shrugged. "I guess so. I mean, as far as the physical part of it goes, yeah, I get it, but what I _don't_ get is _why_. I'm not a cute little bean. I'm a grown man. I have chest hair, Josh."

I raised my eyebrows at his little white lie.

"Okay, I only have _two_ chest hairs," he grumbled. "But I have a ton of armpit hair! I'm not a cute little bean. I'm an adult." He noticed my skeptical look. "Well. . . sometimes I am."

I laughed at his adorable outrage over whether he was too manly to be a bean. I suddenly gained a new understanding of his most devoted female fans. If I was a chick, I'd be all over that.

"I'm sure most of the fans think of it as just a cute nickname, but if you ask me, there's more to it than that."

He cocked one eyebrow and sat forward at attention. "What do you mean?"

I wasn't the greatest at expressing my thoughts, but it was important for Tyler to fully understand this so he wouldn't be tempted to just brush it off as something silly.

"Your fans are very protective of you, Tyler. You're not just a rock star to them. You're their voice. You're not afraid to shine a light on our fears and insecurities, the darkest parts of our hearts. They love that about you— _I_ love that about you— but at the same time, it scares the shit out of us. We worry about you.

"For the fans, smol bean is the only way they have of letting you know they understand and they're there for you in spirit, if not in body. We love you so much that we just want to protect you from all the bad in the world, because you're our smol bean."

I stopped, wondering if any of that sounded even remotely like I'd imagined it in my head. "Did any of that make sense?"

Tyler looked away. To anyone who didn't know him, they'd think he was zoning out and not paying attention, but this was Tyler in thinking mode. Finally, he turned his gaze back to me.

"I don't know what to say to that other than you don't have to worry about me, Josh."

"I _do_ , though," I said. "We _all_ do."

"I'm okay," he said. "Really." 

I nodded. "Good, but if you're ever _not_ okay, we're here for you."

I could tell he was overwhelmed, and not sure how to respond to my explanation. The guy was just so clueless sometimes. His music wasn't just a source of income for us anymore; it was powerful force for good. It kept us both sane, and apparently, it kept a whole hell of a lot of other people sane, too.

"We have some pretty amazing fans," he said. "I mean, we go out into the audience and they hold us up with their hands. How many bands could trust their fans with their safety that way. We're really blessed."

"Yeah," I said softly. "We're blessed to have _them,_ and they're blessed to have _us,_ but especially you _."_

He leaned to the side and slid his phone out of his back pocket.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He started typing. "Letting my fans know that I love them, too."

I smiled. Tyler had finally embraced the bean.


End file.
